Page 4 of Perfectly Complicated
Because up close, he’s lethal. Sharp cheekbones, a square jaw shadowed with just enough stubble, and eyes so dark they make me forget my own name. His face clearly belongs on a red carpet with a movie star, and I haven’t even seen him smile yet.
As all women know, a smile is a man’s most devastating quality. Though something tells me this one doesn’t smile often, which might be the only thing saving me right now.
Because if he does, I’m in so much trouble.
For a moment, I think he’s going to fix my mic, but instead, he grabs the second microphone. That’s when I notice his hands—enormous palms that look like they could span half a woman’s back.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I stammer.
“Technical difficulties are just fate’s way of making sure I didn’t miss this.” Despite that serious expression, there’s a glint in his dark eyes that tells me he’s absolutely messing with me. “What do you say we give them a proper show?”
Is he actually…enjoyingthis?
My heart does this ridiculous flutter thing—a feeling I haven’t had in years. Because this stranger just threw himself into my disaster to save me from it, and I have no idea whether to run or melt into a puddle.
He gives me a look that saysjust trust me,and then, to my complete shock, he starts the opening line of the song a cappella, with the worst country twang I’ve ever heard.
And he’s really terrible—like, comically awful. I start to sidestep toward the stage exit, but he stops, mid-verse, and catches my eye.
“Come on,” he says into the mic, then holds out his hand toward me like we’re old duet partners. “You can’t leave me alone to butcher this classic all by myself.”
The crowd starts cheering and clapping, a few people from his table shouting, “Save him!”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling a little. This is insane. I don’t sing duets with strangers. I don’t sing duets with anyone.
“I can’t promise to hit the right notes,” he says with an unassuming shrug. “I’m just the awful backup singer. The Sonny to your Cher. The Jay-Z to your Beyonce.”
The crowd is eating this up, and I realize he’s not just saving me—he’s entertaining them. This is someone who knows how to work an audience.
As genuinely horrible as he is, no one seems to mind it, because he’s actually fifty shades of charming. Almost reminiscent of Hugh Grant singing inLove Actually. That’s when I realize why. There’s nothing more endearing than a man who’s willing to save someone’s dignity while sacrificing his own.
“One verse,” I tell him, holding up my finger as I move to center stage. “That’s it.”
“Got it,” he says. “Though I make no promises about the audience asking for an encore.”
Suddenly we’re standing together, close enough that I can smell the scent of his cologne, woodsy and warm with a hint of spice.
“Ready?” he asks, and when I nod, he starts singing again—still awful, but now it’sourawful.
And somehow, I relax and take over the song, while he pulls back to let me shine. And that’s when the magic happens.
Remarkably, the crowd goes wild. Not because we’re good—we’redefinitelynot—but because there’s something about us together. Instead of singing one verse, I stick it out through the whole song. When we finish, he takes an exaggerated bow, pulling me down with him, and the whole place erupts in cheers and applause.
“See?” he says, his lips hinting at a smile. “Much better with backup.”
“You’re absolutely terrible,” I say around a laugh.
“But charmingly terrible, right?” he deadpans. “That’s my specialty.”
And I’m completely caught off guard by his self-deprecation.
A group of guys in the back are hollering for more, and for a moment, I feel oddly flattered by his attention.
I escape offstage, grateful to be out of the spotlight. But when I glance back, I realize he’s followed me instead of returning to his table.
I turn to face him. “Thank you for the rescue. But I have to ask—how does a guy like you know every word to ‘Before He Cheats’?”
“Good thing I’ve had a lot of practice singing that song in the shower,” he says with a hint of a smirk, then shoves one hand in his pocket. “I’m Rourke Riley, by the way.”
